Choosing Sides
by WatchMeSoar
Summary: Set post-movie. Drake Stone wakes alone and confused after Horvath's attempt on his life, and he finds himself caught in the middle of a dangerous centuries-old conflict. Questions arise concerning his lineage, and more importantly, his choices.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Drake awoke painfully. The sound of blood rushing in his ears buzzed in his head, his limbs unnaturally numb, and blinking open his eyes was harder than it ever had been. He spent a good amount of time—how long exactly he'd never know—groaning and trying to fight the darkness coming again. He hurt _everywhere_.

When he managed to open his eyes enough to get a glimpse of his surroundings was when he first began to question them. Where was he? He searched his memory, and found that he could not recall what hd happened, or where he was. He panicked briefly, but as soon as he was able to discern the flamboyant carpet pattern in the darkness he was assured that this was indeed his room; his master closet, to be exact. He was lying crumpled, in pain, on the floor of his closet.

Well, that opened things up for questions, didn't it?

Painstakingly, he managed to get himself to his feet. Holding his aching head in his hands, he made his way to the door back into his bedroom.

"Bloody dark…" he muttered to himself, squinting to see the sliver of light from the cracked door through his pain, "Whoever had the bollocks to leave me in—-woaaAH!"

And just like that, he was on the floor again.

"What the bloody hell?" was murmured into the carpet. Drake sat up, and turned to see what he had tripped on, but in the darkness he could see nothing. He scooted himself over to the wall by the door and reached up for the light switch.

When the light turned on, and he looked back to see the offending object, he was eternally grateful that he had not been standing. He was numbly aware that his extremities had started madly shaking, as well as his breath, but his attention was engaged not on himself, but on the body of a young girl, twistedly peaceful, with wide open eyes that stared at him unerringly.

Drake could not help but to hold her lifeless gaze for a drawn out moment, willing it all to be in his head, a booze-induced mirage that would shimmer into nonexistence. But it never did. This was real. There was a dead girl in his closet.

With a strangled noise, Drake scrambled his way onto his feet and out of the closet. He desperately sucked in breath after breath, trying hard to keep himself from hyperventilating. Stubbornly refusing to turn back around, he forced himself to calm, staring hard at his dark purple wall above his bed, not allowing himself to think.

After a time, when he thought that he was reasonably calm (the shuddering breaths and trembling hands would _not_ be going away, he could tell), he tried to rationalize his way from what he remembered of yesterday to the…to his…current situation.

Horvath. He had seen Horvath yesterday. He had had Drake position the satellite things into a pentagram, for the ritual to free Morgana…

Did that mean she was free? If it was supposed to happen yesterday… He decided to add that to his ever-growing pile of questions, and got back to the more pressing issue.

He remembered getting back to his penthouse, being pissed about his chipped manicure (couldn't find it within himself to be pissed about that now) and chatting with Horvath. Talking…talking about what?

Drake put a palm to his forehead and furrowed his brow. Horvath had been talking about his education, right? Asking about what he had been taught. About a certain spell…

Drake exhaled in a gust. His head was hurting so much, and he couldn't remember what he knew must be important. But he refused to give up this line of thought now, if for no other reason than to put off turning around for a moment longer…

Okay, so Horvath had asked him if he know a certain spell. Parasite spell. That was it. The Parasite spell. The one that allowed one sorcerer to take the magic from another…

Drake's hand shot away from his head, and his eyes jolted to his finger. It was gone. His Ring was gone.

"No, no, no no no no…" He looked frantically down at his feet, praying that he had just dropped it. Forgetting himself, he turned and traced his earlier path back to the closet. Stopping in the threshold, his breath was stolen from him as his eyes once again found the young girls corpse.

Though his hands still shook, and his breathing was ragged, he was in a much clearer state than he had been when he awoke. Seeing the girl, dressed in a gown that covered her modestly, apron white and pressed, cape crumpled underneath her…

This was Abigail Williams. He recognized her from the depiction on the Grimhold. This girl was meant to be his ally.

Drake haltingly made his way closer to her, then down onto his knees. Trembling, he reached to her neck—-just to be _sure_ —-and found pulseless, icy skin. Just as he knew he would.

What he did not expect to fine was the burn, the _brand_ , on the side of her neck. Inspecting further, decidedly _not_ looking at her face, he found it to be a pentagram, with rune-like markings at each of its points. Leaning back, he could see that she wore no jewelry.

Dread settled deep in his gut, and he brought a shaking hand to his own neck. He felt the burn, the raised skin at the base of his neck, and swallowed hard.

Horvath had betrayed him. Had taken his magic and—if Abigail Williams was any indication—had meant to take much more. He had wanted to kill him. Had probably planed to from the beginning.

Drake closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He probably should have seen that one coming, but he never was one to plan that far ahead. He didn't think of it. Not that he put it passed the old man, he had seen and heard far too much of Horvath to think him anything less than ruthless. But, still… Drake had done what was asked of him. They were on the same side. He had thought that would have meant something, anything, but evidently not.

Then a more worrisome thought entered into his mind. If Horvath had wanted him dead, and he was not, was he in danger now? He had no allies. Not the dead girl on the floor, not his traitorous _business partner,_ certainly not Morgana herself or the Merlinians…

Drake was in big trouble. And he had a horrible feeling that he alone wasn't going to be able to ward off whatever was coming for him.

 **A/n: Drake Stone needs more love. And to show my love, I'm gonna put him through a world of hurt. 'Cuz that's what I do. I'll do my best to update as often as I can. :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"You're late, Dave."

The young wizard in question supposed that he shouldn't have been surprised that Balthazar was there, waiting. In his lab. To suck away all of his fun and good feelings.

"Hey, Balthazar," Dave said, rolling his eyes, keeping one arm around Becky, who wore an amused grin. "I was just thinking that, you know, we could use some, uh, time off? You know with the world out of imminent danger and things finally going right, and all…" He continued, with a not-quite-subtle gesture to his right.

"Trouble never sleeps, Dave," Balthazar called back up the stairs, "and neither will you."

With that, he turned his back ( _drama queen_ , Dave thought) and walked to the other end of the lab. Veronica took her turn to speak, and met the two students at the bottom of the stairs.

"We have not properly met," she greeted kindly, "I am Veronica. It is a pleasure to meet both of you." Her smile met her eyes, and Dave and Becky felt instantly taken with the woman.

"Likewise," Becky responded. "Dave has told me so much about you already."

"Well, everything I know is from what Balthazar told me. Its great to finally meet you too, Veronica."

"Dave."

The droning call came from the far corner of the room, and with a long-suffering sigh Dave left the women and went to attend to his master's every whim, and whatnot.

When Dave made it over, with a questioning _yyyeah?_ Balthazar took a moment before he spoke. Dave caught his glance and looked over his shoulder at Veronica and Becky, already chatting like fast friends, and when he looked back to Balthazar he could see a hint of a smile on his face. As soon as Balthazar caught his (smug) expression, the mask of indifference was on again and they were down to business.

"I wasn't joking, Dave," he began, "about the training."

"I know."

"You may have defeated Morgana and saved the world once, but that does to mean it won't need saving again."

"I know."

"Soon."

"I kn— what do you mean _soon?_ "

To answer him, Balthazar held up a cane between them.

"…is that Horvath's cane?"

"It is, yes."

Dave took the object into his own hands. "Is he coming back?"

"Most likely. But that is not the problem."

At Dave's questioning, if mildly panicked, look, he continued. "I was wholly prepared to assume the best and worst of Horvath after he fled last night, whether he were to return with another plan or disappear completely—"

"Which one's which—"

"—but I could not anticipate this." With this statement, Balthazar pointed to the very top of the blue stone, indicating that Dave look further. He saw, faintly, what looked to be..wait…

"Is that a pentagram?"

"Indeed it is. A very specific pentagram. This particular one is associated with Baphomet."

"Uh-huh. And Baphomet is…?"

"It is a pagan idol, whose presence goes all the way back to the Knights Templar. When he made his presence known, it was quite shaking for the magical world, as I recall. Some consider him synonymous with the Devil, but this is not true, although it is close to it. He is something of an elite demon. Sinister, tricky, and very ill-tempered."

As Balthazar closed his speech, Dave was wide-eyed and slack-jawed. He took a moment to school his expression and begin breathing again. He could practically feel where this was going. "Okay. So… He's next on our list of things to defeat?"

"That would be correct. We can safely assume that Horvath is operating under Baphomet's design, as well as he was Morgana's. Perhaps he meant to bring the two together somehow, I don't know. But now that he's run, I'd say he's gone to his other master."

Dave shook his head, trying to appear relaxed. "Great, just when things were starting to go right." He then shot a glance over his shoulder at Becky, who was talking animatedly about who-knows-what with Veronica, and sighed.

Balthazar followed his gaze. "How was the trip?" he asked after a moment.

Dave turned back to him, and couldn't help the goofy grin that took place on his face. "Awesome."

A small smile graced Balthazar's face as well, and they were silent for a moment longer.

"There is one more thing, Dave."

"…of course there is."

"Don't give me that. All things considered, this is far less life threatening than everything else."

"Then, please, share the good news."

Balthazar took back the cane, and turned it so they were now looking at the side. "Do you recognize these?"

There were, around the neck of the walking stick, three pieces of jewelry. The first of which was quickly removed, and placed back on its master's finger with a grumbled _just in case…_ before the examination resumed. There was a necklace, an iron pentagram with a small onyx jewel in the middle of it, and a ring sporting a brilliant ruby.

"Whose are these?"

"They belonged to the Morganians. This necklace was Abigail Williams', and the ring was Drake Stone's." Dave thought back to the stage magician, and felt a pang of…what…anxiety?…at the thought that something had happened to him. He didn't seem evil. Careless and flashy, sure, and maybe even at his worst, dangerous. But not evil. Not like Horvath.

"What happened to them?"

"There is a spell that allows one sorcerer to take another's power. Because a wizard's channeling gem only works for that wizards specific magic, these would have done no good for Horvath unless he had utilized the spell."

A sickening feeling settled in Dave's gut, and by the Look on Balthazar's face he wasn't as calm about it as he was trying to be.

"Balthazar, what happens to the sorcerer when this spell is used on them?"

"They die." The answer was quiet, strained. Morganian or not, neither Dave nor Balthazar was settled with the idea of murder—which is exactly what this was. The two were quiet for a moment, until Balthazar spoke again. "However, there seems to have been a miscalculation in Horvath's scheme."

"What do you mean?"

Balthazar held the neck of the cane closer for Dave's inspection, and said, "See the ruby? What do you notice?"

It took a moment, but when Dave realized what was wrong his eyes went wide. While the onyx gem was dull, lifeless, and obviously devoid of any more magical purpose, the ruby sustained a faint glow, soft enough to be missed by anyone who wouldn't understand it, but Glaringly obvious to anyone who knew what it meant.

Dave tore his eyes away from the Ring, and looked to Balthazar. The older wizard nodded once, and spoke.

"Yes. Drake Stone is still alive."

 **A/n: I am using characters in this story that relate to real historical events and/or cult followings. I mean no disrespect and I am sorry if i interpret anything differently than you do, but this is fan fiction about modern-day magical battles and I thought a bit of artistic license was** **appropriate. I am also exaggerating, because, ya know, fiction. Hope you enjoy!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"How on earth can he still be alive?"

"I've explained this many times, Dave."

Minutes later, in the car, Dave was still having trouble wrapping his mind around what he had been told. It might have been easier if the old man would _freaking talk…_

" _No,_ you've given me plenty of dull and vague comments leading me to believe this is a very big deal, but I still have no idea what's going on."

Balthazar was silent.

And Dave was persistent. "…I'm gonna keep bugging you. I'll ask Veronica. I'll try to figure it out _myself_ , by nosing around, poking into things that aren't my business, making a target of myself…"

"Please, for Merlin's sake, don't."

Dave shut up, but looked at Balthazar expectantly.

Balthazar sighed. There was no dealing with the kid. "I was only waiting to tell you because I haven't got it all figured out yet."

"Two heads are better than one."

"That may be, but this is something I doubt you could help me with."

"Tell me anyway."

Silence for a moment. Then: "The Parasite Spell works in such a way that it uses enough force to take away the average sorcerer's magic, but controlled enough to not take away anything more."

"Such as?"

"Auras. Souls. That's a lesson for later. The point is that, no matter how powerful the sorcerer, their magic takes up the same amount of figurative space and energy, for lack of better term. It's like a muscle. One can build it up or neglect it, but in a way it is one solid, magical entity at the person's core. It is like this for every common sorcerer."

Dave took that in. "So…Why would it not work?"

Indirect as always, Balthazar continued on. "You would be an exception to this rule. Merlin was a Prime Sorcerer, and as his heir you have carried on this title. Your magic, like his was, is more like the blood that flows through the body. It is all-encompassing, allowing it to undulate and grow. If the Spell were to be used on you I'd imagine that your magic would instinctively expand to null the Spell's effect."

The silence this time was even longer. "So… _wait_ , then…"

"It would appear, Dave, that you are not the only one with an alpha lineage."

Dave let out a heavy breath and faced forward. "This is either really cool, or we are _so screwed_."

"Mmm."

Dave looked back to Balthazar, and noticed the barely-there tightness of his jaw and his brow that was more furrowed than usual, and remembered then that there was more that they hadn't figured out yet.

"What—er,— what exactly is it that has you so confused about all this?"

Balthazar took a deep, cleansing breath before speaking. "Understand, Dave, that you are not the only Prime. Perhaps you are the most powerful, being of the direct line of Merlin himself, but there have been other Primes throughout the ages, and many of them produced heirs as well. Many of the bloodlines have also died out, but a few remain. Not all of them, Merlinian."

"Wait, wait,wait, there are Prime _Morganians_?" Dave was not _at all_ fond of this idea.

Before he could panic, Balthazar cut in to calm him down. Sort of. "Well, yes and no. Morgana herself didn't produce an heir, and therefore there was never a Prime Morganian, one that would be your direct counterpart. There have been many Primes of other arch sorcerers that were Morganian themselves, but…well, they're not usually hard to find."

"Why is that?"

"Morganian magic— _evil_ magic—is notoriously hard to control, or contain. It's rather…malignant, I suppose, in its maturation throughout generations. When the bloodline runs thin enough, the exaggerated power within the Prime tends to reveal itself in less than pleasant ways. Such Primes are found, and disposed of."

There it was again, the silence. But this time it was sad. Both knew it was necessary for the good of many, and even the world, but it was still _killing_. Never mind that they had just done this very thing the day before. Dave shook his head and decided not to dwell too much at the moment. There were plenty of other things he had to worry about right then, apparently. And then it hit him.

"…Balthazar?"

"Mm?"

"Drake Stone's magic wasn't, uh, _malignant._ Or out of control. Why…why is that?"

"The logical explanation is that his magic isn't evil"

"…His magic is _Merlinian_?"

This time, the silence served as an answer.

III

His place was _trashed_.

Drake had made it out of his room and what he found was not in the least reassuring. Statues and tables were overturned, paintings ripped from the wall. Broken glass and pottery was everywhere, and he couldn't place it, but _something_ was up with the rug. Drake carefully, shakily sidestepped the obstructions, making a lap through his flat. Looking for…clues? That sounded so lame and cartoony. But it was true. He needed something to go by, but there wasn't much for him to go by. He made it to his desk, looked back through the room, and let himself drop into his chair. He had been right here, one day ago. Everything had been fine. Now…now what was he supposed to do? He let his face, slack-jawed, fall into his hands, elbows resting on the desk. What was he going to _do?_

He didn't have much time to ponder, however. Not a minute later, the door in the other room opened.

His head shop up, but he dared not make a sound. What if it was Horvath? What if he had brought _Morgana_? He was dead. He was so, _so_ dead.

III

"Last time we were here, it didn't exactly end well."

"Speak quietly. There is no one here to harm us this time, Dave."

Dave sidestepped a broken vase. "That's not what you said in the car. There might be a very alive sorcerer here waiting for us."

"A sorcerer without the ability to channel his magic. Still, speak _quietly_."

The two made it through the entry hall, and made it to what looked to be the master bedroom.

Dave was less than impressed. "It's purple." He received no response.

Balthazar had made it to the other side of the bed, to the open closet door, and when Dave saw him suddenly stop, he grew nervous.

"Uh, Balthazar? What is it?"

Balthazar turned towards Dave, and the latter was shocked and saddened by the look on his face. He had a suspicion as to what the the elder sorcerer had found, but he went to his side, anyway. He wasn't wrong.

There, lying _deathly_ still, was a little girl. She was a witch, a _bad_ witch, in life, but…Dave made a small, strangled noise. She was a _child_.

Balthazar made his way silently over to her side and knelt, examining the body. When he brought his hand to her neck, he finally spoke. "I'm afraid I was right. She was a victim of the Parasite Spell."

Balthazar leaned back on his feet, and Dave grasped the door frame for support. It was a _cruel_ spell.

Before the two could dwell on it any longer, they heard a cash coming from the room at the end of the hall.

Dave snapped his neck around, taken off guard. Balthazar motioned for him to remain quiet, and the two made it out of the bedroom and down the ill-lit hallway.

When they entered the sitting room, Balthazar stopped. He was here. Balthazar could feel it. So where—

The sound of something swiping through the air met his ears, and he threw up his forearms at once to defend himself, swiftly parrying the offending object and catching the attacker's eye at once.

Drake Stone. A very frazzled-looking, unkempt Drake Stone.

Dave was yelling behind him—what, he couldn't tell—and Drake quickly recovered and took another ruthless swipe, this time at Balthazar's legs. Before the object (it looked to be some kind of cane; probably a magician's prop) made contact, Balthazar willed himself to take hold of it, threw it across the room, and with a gesture of his hand he had Stone up against the opposite wall, struggling to free himself from invisible hands.

Dave was looking on in bewilderment—he'd _have_ to work on his reflexes—and Balthazar was about to demand answers from the man who had attacked them, but when he looked, really _looked_ at the figure before him, he felt sympathy stir in his chest.

He couldn't understand how Morganians could do what they did; to intentionally cause so much fear in the souls of those they targeted. Even now, with no intent to harm him, Balthazar could hardly stand to look into Stone's eyes and see the fear held there. The fear of _him_.


End file.
